A Silent Walk of Stories

A storyteller is a walking scrapbook— roads and faces, photographs and half-remembered pages stitched together by time.

When I look back and flip through those faded frames, the past spills into the present. Faces rise, places shimmer, and memories—soft, stubborn echoes—refuse to loosen their hold.

Most days, I am simply a being searching for space—to breathe, to be.
On other days, I become many things at once: storyteller, friend, mentor, guide—walking alongside my students as they find their own voices.

One sunny morning, silence spoke the loudest.

For the first time in a while, I could breathe. I could feel space.

Of all the pancha bhoothas—fire, ether, air, water, and space—it is space that has always drawn me in. Invisible. Silent. Vast. Holding everything and asking nothing in return. The cosmos itself is an exercise in elegant simplicity: the universe as an ordered whole, a sum total of lived experiences.

I chase silence the way one chases a secret—slipping into temples lit by humble lamps, where stillness waits patiently. I savour emotions the way one tastes food slowly: peace, companionship, shared anecdotes, stories exchanged like gifts. When silence finally settles, it does not empty—it fills. It hums softly, pregnant with memories we will return to again and again.

Looking back at the path I have been circling, I see a trail of stories—experiences like footprints along a sacred circumference. Have I come a full circle? Or am I still walking?

Forty-five years ago, I told my first story to a group of kindergarten children—a simple lollipop story. It was born out of necessity. The little ones needed calming; storytelling happened to me not by choice, but by chance.

Then, about twenty-seven years ago, I became a storyteller in earnest. A newspaper article, a chance storytelling session—ingredients in a recipe I did not know I was cooking. That moment quietly turned into a career.

People often ask me, “What is storytelling?”

In its simplest form, it is sweet and uncomplicated: a teller and a listener sharing space. Perhaps that is what drew me in. When I was asked to train nearly 300 teachers in my very first assignment, my mind went blank. Which story? How do I train? Where do I begin?

Years later, the answer arrived.

Storytelling is the words that live between silences.

If you learn to listen deeply—to silence itself—then words and images come to you naturally. When woven with care and placed in the right order, they become a story.

It takes four hours to walk around this Mountain my master my muse. When I first began this walk, twenty-seven years ago, I had only sown the seeds of storytelling. With no map and no certainty, I chose the road not taken. The early days were difficult. How does one tell stories to adults? To teachers? How does one teach the art of storytelling itself?

When the student is ready, the master appears.The Mountain.

I would stand before it—empty, silent—until I slowly dissolved into it. The wind would rise, and instinctively I would wrap a shawl around myself. Rain would fall, and my hands would open an umbrella without thought. So too, along the storytelling path, instincts formed. Tools revealed themselves: voice, modulation, gesture, rhythm, movement, music.

Further along, I discovered stories could be told without words—through pictures, dance, and natural sounds. Puppets appeared suddenly, like black-faced monkeys darting across the mountain trail. I paused often—to watch a dew drop hesitate before falling from a leaf. Walking barefoot made me alert. Every sound, every movement mattered. Even nonsense—gibberish, the illogical—completed the story.

I learned to mime, to speak without speech. This became invaluable when telling stories across borders—in Latin America, in Europe—where language dissolved but stories remained. I thought I walked alone, but others walked beside me in silence, carrying their own stories. At times, we exchanged them like travellers exchanging bread. That is how I found myself in 48 countries.

Was the travel real? Or was it all in my mind?

A new path opened—into forests, winding toward a lake. Sitting there, I realised the mountain was not singular, but many and an illusion of oneness. Storytelling, too, had evolved this way. It is never predictable. If it were, it would be mere fact. The Story’s live in wonder, fear, mystery, emotion. Do visit them often. 

Are you listening?

The path suddenly grew loud. Chaotic. Crowded with voices, distractions, storytellers of every kind, selling wares, racing ahead. I felt anger, frustration, restless. Familiar faces passed—some bowed, others pushed past. My expectations weighed me down, and my stories began to mirror my turmoil.

I almost stopped walking.

Then I looked up.

The mountain was there—different, veiled in clouds. Was it changing? Or was I?

I remembered stories shared by the lake. Linda’s tale of transformation. Kay guiding me to the golden tree in Scotland. The story of the oak that stood for a hundred years. The wind carried David Campbell’s song:

“Rest for a while now, the night is young.
Time is short and the road is long.”

I hummed it as I walked. Shared it with fellow travellers. One of them said, “You should write this down when you finish.”

This—this is me doing just that.

I near the end now and look up. The mountain is gone. Or is it hidden by mist? And then—there it is again, whispering, “I am here, and I am not.”

Storytelling, too, is an illusion. It comes to those who seek, who listen, who wish to share. It has become my voice of consciousness.

As I stand before the mountain -grand and humble—I see myself reflected in its silence. Storytelling is simple. It belongs to the simple-hearted. Every storyteller is an artist, a painter, a magician, an actor—rediscovering an ancient act. Time passes. Fame drifts like wind.